


Red Dead Redemption 2: In Novel Format - Discontinued

by Believe_in_Stephen



Category: Novelization - Fandom, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Basically it's 1899 everything is bad for good people, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Literally just RDR2 in novel format, Micah Bell Being an Asshole, Not Beta Read, Other, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Will go by chapters, first "work", nothing major just little things, tweaking the story a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Believe_in_Stephen/pseuds/Believe_in_Stephen
Summary: "By 1899, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was at an end. America was becoming a land of laws. Even the West had mostly been tamed. A few gangs still roamed but they were being hunted down and destroyed."
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Karen Jones/Sean MacGuire, Mary Gillis Linton/Arthur Morgan, Molly O'Shea/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Something I thought to do for fun and practice. Also masochism. A whole lot of mental masochism because these cowboys live rent free in my brain now apparently.
> 
> Update - Okay so real talk, Red Dead Redemption II is a phenomenal game that I've played through multiple times. I love it to bits. But writing it on the other hand, in this format, and never writing anything beforehand? A bit cumbersome, one might say. So here's the deal:
> 
> This ends here, but that's not to say I'm deleting it or stopping writing about these cowpokes any time soon, OHOHO no. If anything this opens me up to an AU or some one-offs. That's the good shit.
> 
> So, yeah, sorry if y'all got interested in this concept, maybe someone or a certain gaming company (Cough cough) will pick this idea up. I'll see you all later!

The cold blizzard wind was like that of a corrupt birdsong. Whistling through the battered pine trees, roaring across the vast open space of the upper West Grizzlies only to find itself lost in the bleak and gray weather clouded by falling and fallen bits of snow.

Hell had frozen over and it couldn’t have been sooner.

The canvas wagons creak and groan as they come down the unmarked path of the frozen waste, following each other in a line in hopes the one leading would find themselves salvation in the godforsaken. The moon and lamplights illuminating the path only vaguely so as the horses don’t run off into snow-covered banks.

While the group attempts to navigate the storm, a figure exits out of the first wagon’s exterior and starts trailing alongside to meet the driver ahead, exclaiming “Abigail says he’s dying, Dutch. We’ll have to stop someplace.”

Dutch, the leader of the caravan, responds assuredly, “Okay, Arthur’s out looking. I’ve sent him up ahead.” and with a tired, shiver-ridden exhale, the older gent retreats back into his own wagon to inform the passengers of the information handed to him.

The wagons were only designed to keep so much out. Dust, sand, wind, snow. But the freezing temperatures it could do nothing for, it showed. All throughout the caravan, young and old huddled around themselves and oil lamps in search of some kind of warmth.

“If we don’t stop soon we’ll all be dying,” A low grumble of a warning from his shotgun driver, a man no later in his sixties wearing a fur-lined lapel coat and stalker hat. “This weather, it’s May!” He continued, “I just hope the law got as lost as we did.”

Before he can say much else, they hear the loud call of a horse in front of them. “There!” Dutch exclaims, making out the faint outline and shadow of a man atop a horse in front of them through the fog.

“Arthur! Any luck?”

Shielding his eyes from the storm, Arthur responds in kind, “I found a place where we can get some shelter.” He continued, his voice trailing off into a somber tone, “Let Davey rest while he… y’know.”

He turned, leading his horse into the direction he came, “Ol’ mining town, abandoned, ‘t ain’t far. C’mon.”

“Everybody, _come on!_ ” Announces the loud call from the lead, Dutch, signaling the rest of the group to fall in line again to make it to a newfound shelter. Perhaps not out of the woods yet but, much better odds than staying in the storm.


	2. Chapter I: Colter - "Something up the Path"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Half frozen, close to death, and on the run, the gang find shelter in an old abandoned mining town. Dutch and Arthur head out to look for the rest of their group."
> 
> Update: 01/17/2021 - Fixed a minor discrepancy in the plot, I'm not abandoning this thing just yet!

The door to the run-down church building swung open, flooding the entry with freezing wind and lamplight. The older figure in the doorway stands, scanning the interior with his cattleman. Satisfied with what he sees, or rather what he lacks to see, he holsters his sidearm and signals to the others, "Bring him in here!”

Pushing a pew out from the entrance of the door, the older man clears the way for Arthur and another man, stockier, with a pinned hat and a thick beard to haul in the injured occupant, Davey, and the rest follow suit.

Setting him down with a less than gentle thud, Arthur begins to help the rest with tidying up the small building that would provide them shelter. The lead woman of the group, an older lady with deep creases along her face, body wrapped up in a heavy coat with a hood began providing work for the others to do, “Ms. Gaskill, get that fire lit quick, Ms. Jones, bring in whatever blankets we have, Mr. Pearson, see what we have in terms of food.”

  
  


Through the pandemonium came a lull only for it to be filled with Abigail’s voice, informing the rest of what they’d feared had happened,

“Davey’s dead.”

Everyone fell silent at the news. They didn’t know Davey well, but they didn’t not know him. The man only ran with them for a couple weeks before and everyone knew him and his brother were a pair of bastards.

“There was nothing more you could have done.”

The moment he came stumbling back to camp off his horse with lead in his side they all knew it; resources were run already thin and they were too busy helping young Jenny before she passed along the trek. A pair of bastards to be sure, but they were good men.

How the hell were they gonna break it to Mac.

Old coins were placed over Davey’s tired sockets, a brief farewell to the recently deceased until they could bury him proper, and currency for him to cross the river Styx when he got there.

It was a sad sight indeed, but there wasn’t enough time to mourn him just yet. They needed a game plan, something with a more solid base to work with rather than waiting in some broken shack to freeze. Or starve. Arthur made his way over to Dutch to see what he was thinking.

Hosea, the older man in the fur-lined lapel, was already speaking with him, hushing themselves from the others so as to not worry them about any flaws or weaknesses they otherwise are unaware of. It’s worked for close to two decades, and if Arthur didn’t have a front-row seat to those talks, or just didn’t bother to listen, it would’ve worked on him more than half the time.

“What’re we gonna do, we need supplies.” Much less a question than a statement escaped Hosea’s chapped lips. Dutch, sensing his companions understandable worries, responded with steady words only broken by recent frostbite on his lungs and voice cracks they all knew too well, “Well first of all you are going to stay here, and you are going to get yourself warm. Now, I sent John and Micah out scouting out ahead. Arthur and I will ride out and see if we can find one of them.”

“In _this?_ ” Arthur pointed out to the storm outside, apprehensively, making sure to remind Dutch of the blizzard that lorded over them.

“Just for a short bit, I don't see what other choice we have.”

The conversation seemingly over, Dutch turned to the rest of the group, a sea of people trying their best to recuperate from the exhausting trip up the mountain and make this ramshackle hut a home. Losing folk they knew for quite a bit along the way. They needed something to hold onto, to revive their spirit even if only by a minuscule amount.

Arthur and Hosea knew that look in his eyes all too well, he was going to speak.

“Listen.” he began as folk began slowing down to listen, Hosea held up the lantern to assist the address, “Listen to me, all of you, for a moment.”

Everyone was at his attention by now, and by this moment he continued in full, “Now we’ve had a bad couple of days. I loved Davey, Jenny. Sean, Mac, they may be okay, we don’t know.”

It was a fool’s errand, that job. Hell, sure it supposedly had a lot of money, enough for an emperor to blush with greed, but if they'd known all the turmoil that’d gone down; they wouldn't think of it. Sean getting grabbed, Davey and Jenny shot down, Mac splitting off from everyone, getting lost back in that town. It was a damned mess, the whole thing.

“But we lost some folks.” continued Dutch after some ruminating silence, “Now, if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead, I’d do it. Gladly.”

Arthur nodded his head at the words spoken, knowing full well Dutch would’ve done it for every single one of them here. He’d known the man for almost the whole of his life and he’d known when he was either spinning a yarn or when he was being genuine. This was the latter, without question.

Dutch’s voice had grown louder, more confident at this point, exuding bravado and authority, aiming to give hopeful promise to those who would listen, “But, we are going to ride out, and we are going to find some food. Everybody, we’re safe now. There ain’t nobody going to follow us through a storm like this one, and by the time they get here; well, we’re gonna be long gone.”

“We’ve been through worse than this before.” That they had. All manner of storms, all manner of trouble. Law, scalp hunters, jobs that've gone right, jobs gone wrong, all across the country from West, North, South, and East. Births and deaths, but they’ve survived it all. And they’ll survive this.

“Mr. Pearson,” Dutch motioned towards the husky, middle-aged, balding man with a bushy mustache, “Miss Grimshaw,” and also towards the older lead woman, now de-hooded, showing off her messy big hair, with a significantly large gray streak in it. “I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days.” A grim prospect but one they all knew too well. Dutch could see it on all their tired faces. Men, women, and child.

But it couldn't be helped right now, this was the best they had at the moment, and with one final push, Dutch tried his best to cement the prospect of getting through this with an order they could all follow. “Now all of you, All of you: Get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay. With. Me. We ain’t done yet!”

With that, Dutch’s speech ended and they all went back to work with a sense of renewal among the group as they huddled around the now lit stove. Dutch grabbed his own lantern from the nearby pew and motioned toward the door, his younger companion to follow, “Come on, Arthur.”

Tucking their coats close to their chest, they started to plan what steps would be next while the cold wind stole what little breath it could from them, “Well we ain’t run into them yet, so they both must’ve headed down the hill.”

“Sure,” Arthur responded. He reached forward with his hand outstretched: a sign for dutch to hold on. All throughout that escape up the snow-covered mountain, running from all the shouts and gunshots, something bothered him. Something that picked at the corner of his mind ever since he mounted his horse. “Hey, I ain’t had time to ask but what really happened back there on that boat?”

Clear cut concern and a furrowed brow got the message across. Dutch never spoke a word of what happened after the robbery, only that they needed to leave and fast. And with them being run out of that town that quick with folk being grabbed, lost, or shot concerned the hell out of him. He just needed someone to tell him what happened.

Dutch’s response was less than lackluster as he tried to lead Arthur away from the shack, “We missed you, that’s what happened. Come on.”

Through the howling wind, they could just barely hear the whinnying of a pair of horses, just in time.

“Hey, you need horses?” came the voice of a figure bundled in a heavy coat through the mist of blizzard, leading two horses: A thin, white Arabian, and a black-spotted Appaloosa. One belonged to Dutch and the other Arthur rode in on, but it wasn’t his, she belonged to the man who was leading her.

“Oh yeah, and Mr. Smith get yourself indoors, you need to rest that hand”

Mr. Smith, a moderately large and bulky dark-skinned man with a bandage wrapped around his hand had been with the gang for a couple of weeks now but proved himself to be very valuable to them.

While Dutch mounted his Arabian, Arthur gave Charles a small salute as he mounted his horse, “I’ll live.” He protested.

Dutch was having none of it, “Get indoors, son!”

It was a habit Dutch had formed, calling his confidants ‘son.’ He saw them as such. Total strangers, but they all have a sort of bond they share with each other; brothers, and sons. Arthur, to a point, found it endearing.

“I... We need you strong.”

Charles finally relented to the command, “Okay.”

They rode out into the storm, following what little trail that was disappearing beneath them as the frozen flakes came down from above.

“C’mon, let’s go.” Dutch urged his companion through the remnants of the old mining town, taking the lead through it.

“Ain’t sure what we're gonna find out here, Dutch”

“We have to try. Stay close, we’ll do our best to stick to the trail.”

“This goddamn _weather!_ ” Arthur couldn’t help but curse the storm cutting through his winter coat. Surely Dutch could’ve picked someone else to ride with him through the cold like Bill or Javier. Though the more he thought about it this was the best course of action.

Javier was only equipped with an embroidered wool poncho and some thick pants to wade through the storm. And knowing Bill, well, he thought back to how this was the best course of action.

“Been two days or more like this now. Oh, it has to blow over soon.” Hopefully, Dutch was right and this would blow over soon, else they’ll surely freeze to death inside that shack. Or starve.

It was a mostly silent but somber ride into the blizzard, the pair holding lamps in front of their faces to illuminate the blanketed path ahead. So much hysteria had happened in the past two days, so much confusion Arthur couldn’t wrap his head around. But one thing was for certain, he wanted to find someone as soon as possible so they could return to the freshly warm hearth the rest had made and finally rest. If they were lucky whoever was sent out, either John or Micah, had also found some food all the way up here.

They were about a couple hundred feet out from Colter, following a near-frozen stream before Arthur broke the silence to air his grievances, passing over a rickety wooden bridge.

“I can’t believe we lost Davey too.” Stated Arthur in the concerned musing of the situation. They’d lost folk in the past but this time it felt worse. All those people lost in that span of time batters someone down, and he hoped that at least some of them had made it somehow.

“He’s the last one, Arthur. No more.” Dutch stated with a tired, but confident tone, “We need to get those people warm and fed.”

“‘Least we don’t need to worry about Pinkertons tailing us in this.” God damn those bastards. Arthur wasn’t there for the day, but he was around town when the job went sour. The suits were everywhere he looked, badges and beady eyes and three-piece suits driving them out and giving chase. Like goddamn cockroaches multiplying within freshly fired gunsmoke.

“A couple more days and we’ll be on the other side, you need to help me pick the others back up. You are the only one I can rely on to stay strong right now.”

Ahead settled a thick mist within the barren landscape, so dark you could probably get lost a few feet in. Dutch halted the pair’s ride, squinting to see what all there was to see within before they proceeded.

“Hey, I think I see something up the path,” Dutch informed the man beside him. 

Within the mist slowly appeared a dark shape starting to come through, followed by a shred of orange light at its side. A rider was slowly making its way forward, in the direction of where Arthur and Dutch were halted.

Arthur didn’t like this. Sure, Dutch sent out scouts ahead, but they were also being hounded by the law, the noose coming to escort them to the gallows to face long-awaited judgment. Who's to say the figure in front wasn't a lawman, or a Pinkerton, or a bounty hunter after their scalps?

He rested his hand on his worn leather gunbelt, a mere inch away from his holster and sidearm by proxy, as they both raised their lanterns to try and discern the figure that was only a few yards in front of them and their horses. Before Arthur could voice his concerns, Dutch called out to the silhouette in a high, stern baritone; “You up ahead, who’s there?”

_At least have the patience to let me load the damn thing._

No response. Only the faint sounds of a horse trotting forward and saddle parts clinking together as the man made his way toward them, lantern slowly illuminating the mist in front of them. Arthur had had enough of this and was about to draw on the man before the silhouette made its way out of the edge of the grimy white mist. He would have to be quick if he wanted to get a shot off.

Fortunately, the shot never came.

Arthur breathed a small sigh of relief as he recognized the man in front of them. White wide brim hat, black cowhide jacket, and a face only a frog could bear to look at. He knew the man all too well, far too well than he’d hoped, and upon realizing he’d be stuck riding with him for the duration of the trip he’d wish they’d found that moron Marston instead.

“Micah,” Dutch stated in a low gravelly voice, as if it couldn't have been anyone else.

“Gentlemen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOWIE! Jesus that took a bit. So yeah, we're starting to get into the gnitty gritty with introductions to characters. Some of them we love to hate and some of them we just, y'know, love to love. Training wheels are still on in terms of visuals but I'm starting to slink my greedy little mitts into certain scenes already, as you can tell. Writing is slow but I'm doing my best to be accurate to what happens. See y'all again soon with another part!


	3. Chapter I: Colter - "Love thy Neighbor, as ye love Thyself."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah leads the duo to a lone cabin northwest of Colter, it seems to be in the midst of a large celebration, Dutch has a plan.

“Found anything?” Dutch inquired.

“Think so. Found a little homestead down thataway.” Micah retorted, in his usual deep nasally voice

“Okay. Anyone home?”

“Sure, place is blazing with light and noise, sounded like a party.”

Intrigued with the guarantee of people to interact with and some food to bring back to the rest of the group, or perhaps even the prospect of a warm fire and hospitable hosts, Dutch was quick to jump at the opportunity.

“Let’s go see.” Dutch responded, his mood a bit brighter than last he spoke.

“Follow me.” Micah offered.

Off they went, Micah leading them this time with Dutch trailing and Arthur at the rear. Along the way making idle chat on what happened while he was gone scouting.

“How’s Davey doing?”

“He didn’t make it, nor did little Jenny.” Dutch broke the news.

“That’s too bad, Davey was a real fighter. Both of them Callander boys is- er, was.” Micah responded, voice lacking any sentiment to it, but a tinge of acknowledgement.

Arthur could attest to their strengths himself. Once in their old camp near Tall Trees on the outskirts of Blackwater, the pair was celebrating some job they’d pulled on a couple of highwaymen east of Thieves Landing, went too far in the hooch, caused a fair bit of trouble in camp to the point where Arthur stepped in to calm them both.

Arthur had his fair share of tussles in his time, but by the end of it everyone involved was near passed out and bloodied that they’d called it a draw, and needless to say Susan and Dutch were anything but pleased with the events.

“And Mac, Sean?” Arthur was pulled back to reality with Micah interrupting to ask.

“We don’t know.” Dutch responded, ragged mental exhaustion permeating his tone like ink stains on paper.

“Quite. A. Business.”

They rode on for a bit longer, cutting through undetermined paths among snow-covered pines, the wind picking up it’s chorus of ghostly howls, and relentless freezing temperatures as snow continued to trickle down from the heavens. It truly would've been beautiful country if it wasn't buried in a thick layer of fog, ice, and perpetually trying to freeze them all.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Micah” Dutch hollered to the man in front.

“Always.” Came the response, now a bit farther and more muffled than their previous conversation.

“Ask him if he’s seen John!” Arthur said. They hadn’t seen him since they first split off from the wagons further down the trail, and in this weather he’d hoped the bulluck didn’t wander too far off for him to get lost.

“Hey, have you seen John, Micah?” Called Dutch to Micah, who is by now leading Dutch by the sliver of his lamplight.

“Didn’t see much of anything once this storm came in!” Followed the question posed. Not good news for anyone, for sure.

“He hasn’t seen him.” Dutch passing along the information.

“He’ll be fine, things turn out right for that boy.” Arthur assured them, and himself that if John got himself into some scrape he’d come out of it no worse for wear.

“I hope Mac and Sean are still out there somewhere too.” Dutch, again, leaving behind trails of hope for others to hold on to. Sean and Mac. A pair of men they'd be sure to hear all about once they settle again. Not because they hope to, but because the two of them couldn’t go a week without finding someone to rob, rope into a saloon fight, or just get arrested.

The latter, of course, they hoped wouldn’t have happened. Especially not after the riverboat. Hell, Sean might’ve given those men who grabbed him the slip by now. Eely irish bastard he is.

As they rode on, Dutch allowed Arthur to take his place center-pace so he could cover the rear. As he passed Dutch he managed to get close enough to where he heard the snide remark of, “Mr. Morgan. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see your face.”

The two never really got along. The same could be said with the rest of the group over the matter of Micah. The man somehow snaked himself into their group one day after meeting Dutch somewhere out near Crenshaw Hill and he’s been a fixture of their lives ever since. Like a stain on a rug, or a chip in an old wooden floor. But, Dutch liked him enough to tolerate his antics, and so it goes.

“Been kind of lonely out here. Where’s everyone else?” Micah added.

“Ol’ mining camp, back up the hill.”

“Huddled around a fire waitin’ for daddy to put food on the table? Said it before, we got too many mouths to feed.” Micah made sure to draw out a few words to emphasize his points in the matter regarding the gang. Another quality reserved to the man was his sense of Darwinism. A quality Arthur came to be irritated by and ignored for the sake of argument. Though he was right in a sense, they could do without him and his mouth just fine. With a bitter lip, Arthur grumbled a low response, “Well we got a few less now, so you should be happy.”

“That ain’t fair Arthur, I earn my share.” Micah struck back, “You think it’s unreasonable to expect the others to do the same?”

Arthur didn’t want to acknowledge that, he was already too frozen by the storm relentlessly pounding them and their horses as well as the migraine forming in his head to continue the debate. Instead he changed the subject of the matter, “So, this house… you speak to the people there already?”

“No, like Dutch told us: ‘Look, but don’t talk to no one.’ Just following orders, you know me. I’m a good boy.”

“Right...”

The rest of the ride was filled with stone silence as the trio pushed on through blanketed hills and banks of freshly-made frost, only breaking with the occasional question of how farther the destination was. The temperatures steadily dwindled down below freezing as the night progressed. The three men shivered as their mounts trudged on through the cold ground, shivering with breaths unsteady and teeth mildly chattering against each other until finally Micah broke the still silence with a warned declaration.

“Okay, let’s keep it down now gentlemen. It’s just up ahead.”

Through the pines and snow Arthur saw a considerably sized ranch house, wooden fences surrounding it, a small pen, a small shack for firewood, and a barn sat in a medium sized clearing down below them. The barn’s usage was unknown as this far up north there wouldn’t be much room for raising cattle. The barn, only around fifty feet wide and 80 across, was far too small for any large head. Growing crops was out of the question as well with weather like this, assuming it was commonplace. As for the house itself, it was a modest homestead with snow covering it’s roof amongst everything else it laid itself upon.

Aside from the snow, the house itself radiated a warmth to it with every window glowing a strong orange hue from the many light sources inside. Well, for all he’s good for, Micah did find something at least, but that’s all that Arthur’s willing to give him for now and he’s damn sure not gonna _tell_ him that. As for what’s next? Well, that’s usually Dutch’s expertise with all his people skills. If worst comes to worst they could always rob the folk.

Dutch was the one to speak next, “Okay! Let’s head down there.”

By now he was the only one with a lantern on, and although he missed the heat source that slowly thawed out his fingertips from the wretched frost that encompassed him, he’d much rather grit teeth and bear it than give away what little edge they had.

As they made their way closer to the small ranch, the full scope of what was going on was laid before them, multiple horses were out near the front of the house and sound became noticeable emanating within the home. Through the corrupt howling there was a sound of a violin being played, along with hoots and hollers of people celebrating and dancing along. This was a party, and judging from how many horses were shivering to posts and trees, Arthur began to worry they bit off more than they could’ve thought to chew. Worried that if they screw this up, folk would die. Worried that he very may well die by the hand of a slighted ranch hand who didn’t care for their plight.

“Let’s hitch up here.” Instructed Dutch, directing the trio to a small group of trees a few yards away from the ranch itself. Well hidden in the dark, as well as camouflage within the steady snowfall.

Those worries almost immediately began melting away as soon as he was reminded that Dutch was amongst them. The older man, before Arthur had even met him, once conned a sheriff in a podunk town up near Ohio to set him and Hosea, _another con man_ , free so they could go to church service and confess their misdeeds to the Lord.

 _He convinced a sheriff to let them go to a church._ He had full confidence that if he could convince a town sheriff to open the cell doors and let two well-known con-men free to go to the local clergyman, then he’d have no problem convincing homesteaders to lend them some food and drink.

Though, on the off-chance things didn’t go right, as Arthur climbed down off his horse he removed his own cattleman from its holster, reached within his satchel, and dug out what he was looking for: six brass .45 cartridges. He opened his revolver casing, shoved five in, shut the casing, cocked it to half-cock, then slid the last cartridge into his gun belt just in case.

While he did this, out of the corner of his eye he saw Micah roll his eyes and give a wry smirk as he got off his horse, “Done yet, princess?”

“Just making sure. We don’t know what sideshow of yours this is, there’s near twenty people in there and I’m not fixing to get shot just because.”

“Well why don’t you keep it loaded all the time? Save you the worry and us half the trouble of waiting on you to primp your feathers.” Although it was sound advice, it was laced with sarcasm Arthur didn’t appreciate, especially considering the last few days of the trip. His next few words reflected his mood toward the younger man.

A low, but steadily rising retort fanned the flame of the argument, “I did. But then you went and started all that business in that town, while I was in it no less, I didn’t get the chance to load it while running around being **shot at.** ”

Before Micah could respond with a primed grin and scowl, “Enough you two,” Dutch came in, resolving the situation before it had the chance to devolve into broken noses, chastising the pair while he was at it “right now hardly seems like the time to waste energy on infighting. There are folks depending on us to get them safe and fed, and you two are arguing like a pair of midwives. I’m surprised the folks in there haven’t noticed we’re here yet!”

Arthur just now noticed how loud the two had been, at first he tried to keep the argument to just a low grumble, but it’d escalated to near the howl of the wind swiping around them. Before he could properly apologize for the skirmish, Micah beat him to the punch with a half-hearted, “Sorry, Boss.”

Dutch simply pinched the brim of his nose, sighed, then continued as he walked toward the entrance of the home, lamplight aglow, “Let me do the talking, don’t want to scare these folks.” Motioning for Micah and Arthur to follow his lead.

The music and cheers within the abode only got louder as they came closer to the wide wooden building, windows illuminating the path in front of them, showing an awning to the side of the house where snow still creeped through and under.

“Sounds like quite the party,” Micah’s musings really started to tire Arthur, who at this point would prefer the fool keep his mouth shut. Dutch, thankfully, was willing to oblige him. When the trio neared close to the old broken down shed, Dutch ordered the duo to hide, citing the fact that “one lonely man is a lot less intimidating than a three degenerates.”

Micah took the wheelbarrow to the right side of the pen, having it obscure his figure with the large blanket and snow on top of it while Arthur hid within the shed itself, preferring the shadows from within the building to hide his large frame fully in the night. After they got themselves well and truly hidden they simply watched the master do his work.

Dutch made his presence known with a holler of “Hello?”, and almost instantaneously the music stopped. Hushed whispers permeated the house as some clatter rose within, then again, silence.

He tried again, “Excuse me?” and this time got a response; out walked a man Arthur couldn’t make out the distinguishing figures of, even with oil lights the blizzard blurred almost everything within a ten foot radius. His voice, however, Arthur heard in full context. This was a man who had a night on the hooch and it showed with the irritated slur of, “What’cha want.”

“I am very sorry to disturb you, friend, my friends and I, well…” He trailed off, thinking of the right words to say. The blizzard that hounded him didn’t make it easy to get the words out as with every word his breath was stolen by the pervading wind. He continued on nonetheless, “...We got into some trouble up the way. Lost in the storm.”

Arthur could only take quick peaks from out of the cover from the shed, but the unmistakable glow of more lamplights illuminated the porch as more men trickled out to meet the newcomer. Dutch saw and welcomed them, giving a weak chuckle at the end as he was slowly being outnumbered and his confidence in the situation slowly dwindled, “Ah, gentlemen!”

Before the first man could make any more of an embarrassment of himself in his drunken state, another stepped in his place. Dashing what little hope of a peaceful solution, or a solution at all, the second man stated, “We can’t help you, mister.”

As Dutch scrambled for another bargaining chip, a pit opened up in Arthur’s stomach and his mind swirled with grim thought. Sixteen people back at camp, not counting himself and the two others with him, and only enough food for only a handful. Not to mention other supplies they lacked to stave off injuries they sustained in the ferry job. Goddamn mess is gonna spring up more graves until either the blizzard falters or until no one is around to put them in the ground.

His mind flickered back to the men currently conversing with his leader; these men, these brave souls are having a celebration of wanton gluttony and greed while the rest of them starve and freeze. All cozied up by the open fire and jovial with food on a silver platter.

He’s not going to allow this to happen, he pulled back his hammer with a small click to full cock, his intentions absolute Not to young Jack, or his mother, or the rest of the women. If it comes to dropping these sons of bitches to make sure the rest of them get out fine he’s more than wi-

“Arthur,“ broke him from his concentration, the slowly building red mist fading away within the blizzard wind as he willfully blinked it away. “Arthur, we got a problem.” It was Micah, fully uncovering the blanketed wheelbarrow to reveal a grisly situation they now fully comprehended.

As he spoke, Micah pulled out his dual engraved pair of double-actions, “Arthur, there’s a corpse right here.”

The amount of horses out front, the armaments they all had strapped to them, the number of people in this small cabin, shit. They should’ve pegged this from the get-go. Some poor fool got his house raided by some other gang, and it seems these bastards ain't the nice, charitable sort. Which leaves Dutch…

“Arthur, there’s a body in the wagon.” Micah repeated, urgency clear in his voice.

“Yeah, I hear ya’, just… keep your eyes on Dutch.”

The storm cleared up a bit, allowing Arthur to better comprehend the situation they were in. Things were deteriorating fast with the men surrounding his older compatriot, four of them, with all for one staring intently at the man standing before them. Before Dutch could articulate another heartfelt half-truth, the lead who had been talking with him for the past few minutes finally got his fill of the conversation, “I think you should go now, buddy.”

Sensing he was losing the fight for persuasion, Dutch tried again, seemingly more small and pitiable with tone softer, but urgent, “Now friend, please… I am kinda desperate.”

Suddenly the third man on the porch perked up from the group and craned his neck forward, a short but broad man with medium length dark facial hair and a green undervest that the group all wore in uniform poking out of his black coat, “Hey, I don’t believe it… Come here partner.”

Dutch hesitated for a moment, taking a quick glance back to the direction of his reserve group, a subtle note of concern worn on his face. A feeling that everyone shared in that moment in the stormy night.

“C’mere!”

As Dutch complied, Arthur slowly unlatched his revolver opening and quietly slipped that last cartridge from his gun belt into the sixth empty slot. Figured he’d need it for whatever was going to happen next. Step by step, Dutch made his way toward the three men, a fourth slowly emerging from the side of the house with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Another green vest.

After a couple steps forward, Dutch was halted by the second man to not come any closer. Not close enough into arms reach, but close enough to catch a bullet without question. The seconds stretched on like an eternity, silent enough to hear a pin drop, the howls of the storm stretching on into ghostly wails mixing with the unsteady rhythm of Arthur's heartbeat.

As if by the strike of a match, the third man's expression changed in an instance, full recognition swept across his features as well as an uneasy temperament, "That's goddamn Dutch Van Der Linde you morons! Colm is going to shit hi-"

Before the man could finish his exclamation, he drew his sidearm. No hesitation, Arthur fired off a round into the man's skull before he even had the chance to properly aim the revolver at his leader. His entire body drew back at an angle, and dropped to the floor in a lifeless slump atop the frozen ground.

" _SHIT!_ " came the exasperated yell from Dutch as he threw his lantern off to the side, eagerly getting out of the hailstorm to follow. His lantern fell under the snow and shadow overtook them all.

Not a moment later the entire valley opened up in a chaotic storm of noise and flashes of light that anyone within a 10-mile radius could hear. Not that anyone was around to hear it anyway, muffled and buried in an ice-storm storm like this; and if the lost travelers did draw near, the screams and yells of dying men would likely warn them to not come any further.


	4. Chapter I: Colter - "Saved your life, Morgan"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small tussle ensues at the ranch Micah leads Arthur and Dutch to. As if anything else could come from it.

Arthur flinched as a repeater round ripped through the old gray wood of the shed three feet from his head. _Three_. The fight had been raging on for who knows how long, O’Driscolls holed up in their space in and around the cabin while Dutch and Micah, hell, he didn’t know where those two ran off to. All he knew was that there was gunfire all around him, his foot was starting to numb from the snow climbing his legs, and this goddamn jackass with a repeater was long past the point of the definition of the word " **irritation.** "

It took everything in his power to not vault over and shove a gloved fist down that man’s throat. Ever since Arthur peaked up and fired the first shot, killing the first O’Driscoll, the repeater was trained on his position and nothing in his power could change that aside from his own piece.

Which was currently stuck behind cover, clutched tightly in his black leather riding gloves, glinting in whatever pale moonlight there was in the shadows, and waiting for the right moment to fire off.

Another round shredded the ceiling above him, raining down splinters on his head, shoulders, and hat. _Four_. 

If Arthur’s eyes didn’t deceive him in the final moments leading up to the initial fight, he recognized the weapon the man slung over his shoulder as a Buck Carbine Repeater. 1865 model. A relatively older gun. Worn around the edges, but deadly enough to put a hole in your stomach if you get close enough. Something he could definitely use right now, but judging from its current owner, something that would be more likely to kill him at this moment if he were to use it.

Another loud bang sounded off among the other pops and flashes in the reverb filled valley. _Five_. Just five minutes ago he’d thought Micah was the one giving him a migraine.

He thought more about the model of the rifle; of older, fonder, times where he went on trips hunting for coyotes with Hosea when he was a young man, and Hosea a younger old man. The first few trips didn’t work out. Sure he'd hunted deer with the man, but coyotes were another world of skittish. He'd either scared ‘em off, skittish little things they were, or he’d get too trigger happy and just miss the sho-

One last round fired off, knocking the hat off Arthur’s head, sending it trailing out into the snow-covered bank, carried by the wind and hidden amongst shadow.

_Six_.

One last fact that Arthur was happy to remind himself of in that moment, the Buck Carbine Repeater, 1865 model, was designed to hold six cartridges. After those six you would have to stream six more pellets through the back nozzle and into the gun mechanism. Meaning that this fool only has a functioning paperweight to defend himself with.

Arthur dashed from the cover of the shed around the back to the farthest wall of the front-facing outhouse, the door swung wide-open and shuttering in the blizzard wind.

Through what little ghost-light the moon granted him, he could see the little green vested bastard hiding behind a snow-covered crate, shivering and trying his best to shovel some repeater pellets from the cleared ground beside his feet into the back opening of his rifle in a bid if desperation.

Arthur slowly aimed his revolver at the temple of the man’s head and, with a whistle called out, “Hey! Didja drop something?”

In response to the wide-eyed fear the man gave him, Arthur pulled back the hammer, squeezed the trigger, and put a bullet right through the man’s skull. He gave a sigh of bittersweet satisfaction at the man's death and crept to the side of the house, peaking out to try and find where the others were firing from, and at who.

“Arthur, a little help please!” came a recognizable, concerned, and irate baritone from the direction he looked in. Dutch, pinned by two flashes of light on the opposite side of a rickety outhouse.

_Well, at least he’s still brea-_

Without warning, a shadow sprinted in low from his front and knocked him to the ground onto his back, losing his cattleman in the process. A hand retracted from him and drew tightly onto his throat as a fist began pummeling his face. 

He struggled, trying to block the blows and attempting to give ones of his own to the faceless assailant. Upon realizing this arrangement wasn't working out in his favor, his free hand drew back into the ice, picked up an amount of snow he seemed worthy, and threw it into an upward direction that hopefully was the leather-gloved bastard's face.

What came next was incomprehensible sputtering, a relinquish of his throat, and just when Arthur thought he was going back in for a second round, a gunshot rang out into the cold night air. The man stumbled back a few feet, a look of dread-stricken awe strewn across his face, clutching his stomach with an odd look of... Something in his eyes. Like a man who'd just been stunned by a magician's magic trick.

He opened his mouth to speak, but a second shot from behind Arthur landed in the upper chest of the O'Driscoll, sending him falling back into the blanket of white. Crawling to sit upon his side, Arthur threw his head back to a sight of gloating from Micah, twirling his pistol in an act of showmanship that earned him a grimace and a rolling pair of eyes from the man he'd just saved. Mid-twirl he shouted across the yard, "Saved your life, Morgan!"

No sooner did the words leave his mouth did a siege of bullets start hailing on the crate he was stacked behind from the other side of the house, an angry, drunken slur calling out, "You goddamn bastards are gonna bleed for that!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm torn between doing these smaller updates or just sticking it out and doing longer chapters, and boy, did I shoot myself in the foot by doing the tongue and cheek title thing. But eh, I reap what I sow and so far I've been having fun with it!


End file.
